


The Graduate

by fallen_woman



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallen_woman/pseuds/fallen_woman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy never did learn how to submit gracefully. Spoilers for "The Souvenir"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Graduate

Peggy shows up at the hotel bar wearing a strapless coral number that almost compliments her skin tone, and insists on paying for the drinks. Joan lets her. It's easy to inquire about Sterling-Cooper, for Peggy to explain the fallout from Lois's lawnmower adventure.

"I always thought you put her on Paul's desk to upset him," Peggy says. Joan refuses to confirm or deny.

"In any case, thank you for not putting her on mine." She flicks her eyes up from the Brandy Alexander cuddled in her hands. The way she's drinking it, it might as well be a milkshake.

"Is that new girl of yours treating you well?" Dipping into her pocketbook, Joan smoothes some Fleur d'Eau lotion over her hands. They get cracked easily nowadays, in retail.

"Yes, thank you." Peggy lowers her eyes, sniffs at the scent of flowers wafting from Joan's loosely clasped hands.

After her second drink, Peggy stops talking work and starts talking boys. The degree of enthusiasm she has for both is admirable. Joan smirks politely, and interjects anecdotes when necessary. She ends up interjecting quite often.

Peggy also insists on showing Joan her apartment, and although Joan already has a good idea of what a bachelorette pad in Manhattan looks like, thank you very much, Miss Olson is so relentless that she gives in. "How charming you must be to clients," Joan lilts into the muggy late July air. "Beating them into submission."

The tour takes three minutes. Evidently, Peggy's roommate is away for the weekend ("she's a scream," she says, sweeping away the empty cartons on the kitchen counter). Joan sits in the living room, legs crossed. She looks at the dim lighting, the limp white curtains, the eighteen inches of couch between her and Peggy.

She taps a cigarette out of the carton, lets Peggy see how red her nails are even in the half-dark. "Are you going to light my cigarette, too?" The girl's mouth twitches and her hands tighten in her lap.

Joan laughs and places a hand on Peggy's knee, at the hemline of her skirt. "It's very flattering, dear, but I'm not—"

"Neither am I," the girl frowns. "I … just want to try it out."

Joan lifts her hand from Peggy's knee, edges the unlit cigarette between her lips. "Most girls get over this in college."

Peggy pulls the cigarette from Joan's mouth. "I went to Miss Deaver's Secretarial School," she says, and her eyes catch the dusty lamplight as she leans in.

Motorcycle roars in the distance as their tongues touch. They break away, Joan exhales, and Peggy breathes it in, reverently, like she's taking in a plume of smoke. Her hands are cupping Peggy's shoulders, and her feet are throbbing and her earlobes are sore and it's one in the morning.

"You're going to call my house in the morning," Joan says tightly, and pinches coral fabric where Peggy's left nipple would be. "To apologize for being such a drunken mess and forcing me to nurse you."

Nodding, Peggy clumsily straddles her. Guides Joan's manicured hand from her shoulder to her leg, past her flimsy stocking, and—well. Little Peggy Olson.

"Please, Joan," she moans. "Tell me how to do it."

Joan _shows_ her.


End file.
